Doctor's Orders
by VulcanCheesecake
Summary: Holmes is ill and Watson isn't best pleased.


Opening bleary eyes to the world, Holmes decided, was NOT a good idea. The sun, damn that ball of light Watson was so keen on, was blinding. It made his head hurt, like it would if he was drunk. But he wasn't. There was only one deduction to be made from the pounding head, violent coughing fit that sent Gladstone scarpering from the room, aching throat and shivers; Holmes was ACTUALLY ill.

He couldn't be ill! That just didn't happen to him! He'd be fine if he slept for a couple more hours, he was sure.

It didn't help. But there was nothing else for it. The world needed its only consulting detective! Especially in such times of crisis as...the case of the missing shoes. MISSING SHOES? He must really be sick in the head to have taken that one. Then again, it was probably Watson who had accepted on his behalf. The doctor had a habit of doing that when there were women involved. Holmes rolled his eyes and crawled from beneath the duvet he had been lurking under.

Standing up was yet another bad idea. Adding vomiting to the already-extensive list of symptoms was something Holmes had not planned on doing, but somehow managed it anyway. Quite HOW he was going to explain the stained rug to Mrs Hudson he didn't know. Simple enough then; he wouldn't. Windows were extremely useful things sometimes.

At least Holmes was on his feet now. Dressing he would not risk. Solving cases in pyjamas was his latest pioneering research project, and he told the raised eyebrows in the sitting room as much. Or tried to. His voice didn't seem to want to get past the sore throat and blocked nose. The message got across somehow anyway.

Holmes was about to say something about the paper Watson was inspecting when he erupted into another violent cough that sent Lestrade fleeing the house, much the same as the dog. Charming! Only friends when it suited him. Holmes shrugged and shuffled to the breakfast table, pulling the tablecloth from under the crockery, not quite quickly enough. Plates smashed on the floor, tea making a slowly spreading puddle across the wooden floor and Gladstone dashing back eagerly to eat Holmes' breakfast.

Watson was mid-exasperated-sigh when he caught sight of the state of Holmes. He didn't have to be a doctor to see that they'd probably end up seriously injured if he was allowed to carry on.

"Bed. Now." It wasn't a question, and the protest was predicted.

"The world needs me Watson, I have important cases to solve! Lives could be at stake! Do you want that blood on your hands-"

"Holmes, the lady can survive without her second favourite pair of shoes for another day. Besides, you've already solved it. I read those notes of yours. Bed."

"I can't be SURE that her fiancee has taken them though!"

"You know as well as I do he has a fetish; he tried it on with us, remember?"

"Watson, I must solve it! Give me work, give me problems!"

"What about MY work and MY problems? Get back to bed now, or so help me I will force feed you carrots."

The threat of the hated vegetable sent Holmes meekly shuffling back to his bedroom, Watson following. The doctor sat on the edge of Holmes' bed.

"Symptoms. List them." He had to be firm with Holmes, else he'd never get anywhere with him.

"Hurts." He'd never get anywhere anyway.

"Where?"

"My throat is sore and I have a headache and I keep coughing and I'm cold..." Holmes had resigned himself to being ill and was now looking for the sympathy vote. Which he certainly would NOT get until he was at least almost asleep.

Watson left the room and was back soon with a vulgar-looking liquid in a tea cup.

"No Watson! No!"

"Drink it. ALL of it."

"But..."

"Holmes" The doctor's tone was a warning, so the detective grimaced and downed it. He was glad he couldn't taste too much at the moment, but that didn't stop the foulness of whatever Watson had given him reaching his tastebuds. He earned himself an approving smile though, which he supposed made up for it.

"When was the last time you ate anything?"

"Can't remember. But I don't need to eat! I've only been ill since this morning!"

"Don't care. You're going to eat something."

"No I'm not!" The doctor was gone again and back in minutes with a bowl of soup.

"Eat."

"No!" Watson rolled his eyes.

"Do you want me to spoon feed you? You're certainly childish enough."

"I'm not eating it!"

"Yes. You are." The doctor was always right when it came to...doctoring, and he snatched up the spoon. Holmes realised there was no point in arguing, and took the route that would give him less pain, obediently opening his mouth for Watson and scowling, taking the spoon off the doctor.

"I can eat my own bloody soup."

Eventually, after much grumbling, the soup was finished.

"Sleep." The doctor commanded next, shoving Holmes sideways so he could lean against the headboard. Holmes scowled again, but took the opportunity to press against a taller body.

"I like it when you're affectionate," Watson smiled, running fingers through thick hair.

Well. Holmes WAS ill. He could be nice. Sometimes.

The detective didn't answer him, already asleep.


End file.
